


Snippets from Westeros

by Rumaan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: #Trigger: Dubious consent that in many judiciary systems would be considered marital rape, Angst, Drabble, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Kittens, Longclaw issues, Namedays, Ogling, brother bonding, first time writing ASOIAF fanfiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 8,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumaan/pseuds/Rumaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Drabbles, some serious, some fluffy. Mainly revolving around the Starks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Shadow of the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On her second wedding night, Jeyne can't help but remember what she's lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new departure for me but I have become overwhelmed with too many A Song of Ice and Fire feels to keep ignoring the calls to write fanfiction for it. 
> 
> Many thanks to MiHnn for looking over this for me and encouraging me to publish it. I also blame her for encouraging me to write ASOIAF fanfiction - go and check out her stories as she's a fantastic writer for many different fandoms.
> 
> Also SPaG are not my strong point, so please excuse any mistakes in this drabble.
> 
> Warning: This drabble contains dubious consent issues around marital sex that would be deemed as rape in the judiciary system of many countries. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm not GRRM and write this purely as a hobby and not for any profit. This disclaimer is valid for everything I post in this piece.

No matter how hard she screwed her eyes shut and tried to pretend the hot hands that pawed her body were his, she couldn’t. Her memories wouldn’t allow her. She couldn’t defile what they’d had with this… this passionless, horrible coupling. There were no sweet murmurs in her ear just animalistic grunts that turned her blood cold. She turned her head to the side and gazed out the window. The full moon shone in, lighting the bed chamber with a silvery, grey light, reminiscent of the cloak she’d been given during her first marriage. It was almost as if the moon was mocking her, reminding her of what she’d once had.

Finally, the oaf groaned and rolled off her. She refused to look at him. This minor Lannister bannerman who’d been coerced by her mother and the Kingslayer into marrying her. She wouldn’t call him her husband. That was reserved for the man who still carried her heart. The man she’d never see again and whose image was slowly fading from her mind.

The loud, drunken snores told her that he was sated and asleep. He hadn’t noticed or cared that she lain there as still as a statue, stiff and wooden. The coupling had hurt but she’d refused to give him the satisfaction of wincing. She’d endured, turning inwards, relying on her memories to ignore what was happening. It was a habit she’d become used to in the last two years. She was a disgrace, something to be hidden away in some little rural keep so her family and her so-called liegemen could forget she existed. 

Far away, she thought she heard the howl of a wolf. 

The tears slipped silently down her cheeks, soaking into the pillow and Jeyne whispered a word that was almost a broken sigh.

“Robb!”


	2. Stark Sleeping Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the Stark siblings sleep viewed by their other halves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame this drabble on an intense desire to be asleep during a nighttime feed. In my sleepy state I imagined how the different Stark children would sleep.

Robb sprawls, conquering the bed as if it is a hostile land. It drives Jeyne crazy as she always ends up at the edge, trying not to fall off.

Sansa sleeps as prettily as she chirps. It amuses Sandor that her manners are so ingrained she doesn’t even drop them whilst unconscious.

Gendry has learnt not to touch Arya – not unless he wants a bloody nose. She likes her space, her own pillow and don’t even think of hogging the blankets.

Bran sleeps with his eyes open. Meera has woken up too many times to count to find his unfocused eyes fixed on her. It used to scare her but now she smiles.

Rickon fights the blankets as if they have caused him personal offence. Lyanna has woken up one too many times hot and sweaty from where he’s piled them on top of her.

Jon likes to snuggle. Ygritte had never seen him as the type but his solemn demeanour hides an affectionate side that came out whilst he slept.


	3. Happy Nameday, Little Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The five times Robb said, "Happy nameday, little brother" to Jon and the one time Jon said it to Robb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly-longish-5+1-drabble I came up with after reading lots of brother-bonding Robb/Jon fics.

I  
Jon’s nameday was never anything big. Not like Robb’s the moon before was. But with Father away fighting in the Iron Isles, no one had remembered and Jon’s bottom lip wobbled as he sat sadly on his bed. A big fuss had been made of Robb turning five, but all Jon had received was a rap on his knuckles from Maester Luwin for getting his sums wrong. There was a giggle outside his chamber door before it was kicked open and Robb burst in, with Sansa toddling behind him. She was leaning up, trying to grab one of the lemon cakes Robb was precariously carrying. 

“Happy nameday, little brother,” Robb said triumphantly.

II  
Jon stared enviously at the blunted steel blade Robb had received for his eighth nameday. He’d let Jon hold it and even practice with it before Lady Stark had caught them. Jon had hoped that Father would get him the same for his nameday but he had not. 

“Come with me,” Robb called, once practice was over. 

They ran into the Godswood where they found their father, cleaning Ice as usual. There by his feet lay a bundle and Jon’s heart began to race. Father picked it up with a smile and handed it over to Robb, who ceremoniously presented it to Jon. He peeled back the skins and gasped as he looked on the blunted blade, exactly like Robb’s.

“Happy nameday, little brother,” Robb said cheerfully.

III  
Jon smiled as Robb blindfolded him and led him blindly around the castle. He was turning ten today and he was keen to know what Robb had planned. Last moon, for his tenth nameday, Robb had had a large feast to mark the importance of his age being counted into double figures. No such event happened for Jon, Lady Stark would not allow it, but Jon felt the love of his family when Robb removed his blindfold and a small feast was laid out on the trestle table in the kitchens, his siblings all smiling at him. Robb pushed him down in the big chair at the head of the table. 

“Happy nameday, little brother,” Robb said happily.

IV  
Robb tried to stifle the chuckle as he stole into Jon’s bedchambers late that night. They were twelve now and thought themselves men. For his nameday the moon before, Greyjoy had snuck Robb out to the tavern in Winter Town where Robb had gotten truly drunk. Jon had heard Robb try to persuade Greyjoy to do the same for his nameday, but the Ironborn had refused, saying Jon was only a bastard. He had tried not to let the slight hurt him but it had stung. But as he observed the flush on his brother’s cheeks, Jon had to smile. A wineskin was pressed into his hand as Robb clambered up onto the bed.

“Happy nameday, little brother,” Robb said merrily.

V  
Jon fingered the silver direwolf clasp in his hands and looked at Robb. “But I cannot have this, I am not a Stark.”

His brother scoffed. “You’re as Stark as the rest of us, no matter what your surname is. And when I’m Lord of Winterfell, I’ll petition the king to legitimise you.”

Jon pushed the burning feeling in his chest down and willed himself not to cry. Robb always seemed to know what he wanted and to truly belong to this family was what he desired more than anything. The silver direwolf cloak clasp, the exact same replica of the House Stark sigil that Robb currently wore, having received it for his fourteenth nameday a moon ago, was proof of this. 

“Happy nameday, little brother,” Robb said proudly, as he pressed into Jon’s hand.

\+ 1  
Jon had never wanted this. To be the sole remainder of his family. The only Stark in Winterfell. The bastard turned Lord Stark who had been legitimised by his dead brother. 

He led the procession down into the crypt, the torches burning brightly, illuminating all those who had gone before him. 

Once the internment was complete, only Jon remained down there. He stroked the stone effigy of his brother, frozen forever at the age of seventeen and a tear slipped down his cheek. He felt all his years at three-and-twenty and did not look forward to gaining yet another year in a moon’s time. But at least he had achieved this. Had finally brought his brother home, reuniting him with the rest of his family.

“Happy nameday, little brother,” Jon said sadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, Robb technically is still older, just dead, but in Jon's mind he'll forever be the 14 year old boy he said goodbye to at Winterfell before going to the wall.


	4. Heavy Lies the Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb realises the cost of kingship is his family.

Robb had once told Jon that he could never be Lord of Winterfell. A long time ago, when the sun had still shone and their father still lived. Now, as he watched his siblings surround his half-brother, he wished their roles were reversed. That Jon was the trueborn son.

For whilst Robb had won his particular game of thrones, returned victorious to Winterfell, a crown perched atop his curls, he had lost his family. His siblings, who now flocked around their brother, no longer did the same for him. Bitterness and betrayal was a barrier between them. He had sent Theon to treat with Balon Greyjoy and he had refused to ransom the Kingslayer for his sisters. None of his siblings forgot this.

Robb could only look on as they showered Jon in love, the crown feeling heavier than ever. Would Jon have done things differently?


	5. The Prodigal Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maege Mormont comes face to face with her nephew.

“A bastard sword for a bastard Stark,” were Jorah’s opening words.

Maege turned to face the nephew who had exiled himself to Essos rather than face Stark justice.

“I would not say that too loudly around here,” she cautioned.

Jorah snorted and looked towards the Dragon Queen. To say that Maege had been surprised to see Jorah in Daenerys Targaryen’s retinue had been an understatement. There had been no communication from him since he had renounced his lordship of Bear Island and left Westeros. His actions had broken Jeor’s heart. 

But then again, he had always been attracted to the wrong women and the devotion and lust that shone out of his eyes when he gazed at Daenerys was all too familiar to Maege. 

“Your father chose to give that sword to Jon Snow. He had a great fondness for the boy and there was no one else to wield it.”

“Dacey-,” Jorah started before tailing off at the sheer grief that shadowed Maege’s face. She knew the expression well, felt it on her face several times a day and saw it on her remaining daughters’ faces. There was no recovering from Dacey’s death, the manner of it made sure of that.

“Jon Snow uses it well and that’s what Jeor would have wanted.”

“It belongs to Bear Island. It should be kept for Alysanne’s boy,” Jorah said stubbornly.

“It has a direwolf hilt now. Besides, it’s no longer Longclaw.”

Jorah looked uncertainly towards Jon Snow. “Is it true? Or is he another Stannis Baratheon?”

“He is his father’s son. He has no truck with fire gods from the east and did not welcome the responsibility. But I’ve seen the sword up close and it’s not the same. He sought me out, knowing I knew Longclaw as well as he did. It’s not Longclaw anymore but it is Lightbringer.”

Jorah looked unconvinced and Maege shrugged. Her nephew had been away from Westeros for a long time and no longer knew the political landscape beyond that of his foreign queen. Things were drastically different now. The Others had seen to that.


	6. Summer Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aka Sansa ogles Jon's back and wonders just how muscles got there!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written on tumblr and jal80's to blame. R+L=J.

Sansa blushed and looked away, heart hammering rapidly, her breath coming rapid gasps. 

_Stop it!_ She scolded herself. _It’s Jon._ Jon, _for goodness sake!_

She thanked the Gods – old and new – that his back was to her, as her rebellious eyes were drawn once more across the yard to where Jon was teaching Rickon how to parry an aggressive move. His shirt was off, the warm summer sun causing the sweat to glisten on his skin as he raised his arms high, Longclaw above his head, ready to test Rickon once more. 

She hadn’t even realised it was possible to have muscles _there_. The boy she remembered sparing with Robb all those years ago certainly hadn’t. She tilted her head, her gaze raking down his torso taking in the broad shoulders and that narrow waist. She had always liked beautiful things and there was no doubt Jon Snow had grown into a striking man. 

A bony elbow jostled her side. “Wipe the drool away. It’s embarrassing.”

Instinctively, she raised a hand to her mouth only to scowl when she realised Arya had been teasing.

“Hey, cousin dearest!” Arya called. “You better put a shirt on. You’re causing hearts to flutter in maidenly bosoms.”

The narrowed eyed glare Sansa directed her sister’s way promised retribution before she spun on her toes, ready to escape back into the cool gloom of the Great Keep. 

She missed the grey eyes that tracked every step of her progress.


	7. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written on tumblr for the prompt from MiHnn "Jon x Sansa: comfort in the rain"

“Sansa!”

She heard the call from halfway down the street from where she was huddled under a shop awning, half hidden behind a decorative shrub, her arms wrapped around her body as she shivered, wet and cold. Of course, she had run out of the party without her coat, which wasn’t the smartest move in December. 

Her first thought was that Joffrey has followed her, and she was paralysed with fear. But when the person came into view, she recognised the head of dripping wet black curls instantly, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Jon,” she answered, stepping out of her hiding place.

He turned and she saw that his eyes were tight with worry.

“There you are,” he said, his voice radiating relief. “We’ve been looking for you for twenty minutes.”

He stopped and brushed back the strands of damp hair stuck to her cheeks and looked down at her. A furrow developed between his eyebrows.

“Here,” he said, taking off his coat and draping it around her shoulders. “You must be freezing.”

“Thanks,” she said, her teeth chattering from a mixture of cold and emotion.

A strange silence grew, as Sansa snuggled deep into Jon’s coat and he continued to observe her, his hands dug deep into his pockets. He finally cleared his throat and asked, “Sansa, how long has that been going on?”

Her cheeks flushed and she looked down, too embarrassed to face her brother’s oldest friend. “A few months now,” she whispered.

“Why didn’t you say anything? Robb would’ve put a stop to it and if he hadn’t then I would’ve.”

“I didn’t know how to. I made such a fuss about dating him that I was ashamed to confess that he was a monster.”

“Oh Sansa,” Jon said, his hands coming up to cup her shoulders. “No one would’ve blamed you. How could you have known?”

A sob escaped her mouth as all the months of hiding her bruises and pretending that Joffrey was a golden charming prince came to the fore.

A soft kiss was pressed to her forehead. “It’s okay. He’ll never touch you again. Robb and I will make sure of that.”

She buried her face into his throat and cried, relieved that it was all over and knowing she could trust Jon to keep her safe.

“Come on,” Jon said, once she had calmed down. “Robb will probably be back at the house by now and most likely has called the police to file a missing persons report – if he hasn’t hospitalised that little shit.” 

Sansa gave a watery gurgle at the thought. Jon wrapped his arm around her shoulder and leaned in and said conspiratorially, “He’d already given him a black eye by the time Theon and I managed to drag him away.”


	8. The Pretence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely self-indulgent I-hate-Littlefinger ficlet where Sansa pretends Jon is her boyfriend to stop him from being a creep and Petyr has to watch his Cat substitute with mini-Ned.

The blasting music was giving Jon a hankering for the peace and quiet of the Frostfangs. He could murder Robb for asking him to check in on Sansa as he passed through Gulltown on his way back to the North from a conference on mountain rescue techniques at the Eyrie.

Of course, it being Saturday night and Sansa being a student at the University of Gulltown, she was at a party and had given him the address and told him to swing by when he had called her mobile to arrange to meet. Robb would be expecting a report on his sister’s wellbeing so Jon knew a telephone conversation would not suffice, hence why he now found himself weaving around intoxicated students, looking for his tall and auburn haired third cousin.

When he finally spotted her, he was not expecting her to be in a corner, looking deeply uncomfortable whilst a man old enough to her dad monopolised her attention.  
“Sansa!” he called as he pushed his way through a group of nearby students.

His voice caused them both to turn, giving him an opportunity to study the man standing a little too close to her. He was slender and about half a head shorter than Sansa with grey peppering his hair and a small pointed beard.

Jon’s appearance gave Sansa the opportunity to slip around the creep, relief lighting up her face.

“Jon!” she replied, flinging herself into his arms and surprising him with a kiss on the cheek. He and Sansa have never been close. Whenever he would come to visit, all his time was spent with the other Stark kids and never Sansa.

Keeping one arm around his waist, Sansa turned back to the other man. “See, Petyr! I told you my boyfriend was coming,” Tilting her head up to Jon she said, “Petyr’s very naughty. He was trying to persuade me to leave so we could go and get coffee somewhere quieter.”

“I bet,” Jon said dryly, keeping his surprise at suddenly being promoted to her boyfriend hidden, and eyeing the older man stonily. 

“My apologies, Jon,” Petyr said in a friendly tone that was somehow too slick to ring true. “I thought Sansa was teasing me, considering she’s never mentioned you before tonight.”

Sansa leant forward in an act of confidence. “We’re keeping it quiet, Petyr, until we know how serious it will get. After all, we don’t want to rock the family boat for no reason.”

Petyr looked at him, distain on his face. “Ah, yes, your distant cousin, I believe you said. He certainly has the look of a Stark.”

Jon’s lips twitched into a faint smile. He wasn’t fooled into thinking that was a compliment.

“He does, doesn’t he?” Sansa said, patting Jon’s cheek fondly.

“One could almost mistake him for your father. And you are very much your mother’s daughter, sweetling,” Petyr said his eyes filled with lust as he raked over Sansa, causing Jon’s arm to tighten around her waist.

Sansa sighed, resting her head on Jon’s shoulder. “If we have anything close to the love my parents share, then I will die a happy woman.”

Petyr’s eyes hardened at that but he affably made his excuses and disappeared into the crowd.

“What was that about?” Jon asked, a moment or two later.

“I did an internship under Petyr over the summer. Mama arranged it as he’s an old family friend. But he keeps asking me to go places with him and it makes me a little uncomfortable, so when you phoned, I took the opportunity to pretend I was taken.”

“Sansa, you should tell your mother about him. If he’s an old family friend then she could put a stop to it.”

Sansa grimaced. “I don’t have any concrete prove he’s coming on to me and what if he is just being friendly for Mama’s sake?”

From what Jon had seen, he was definitely being a sleazebag. “What about Robb. At least tell Robb.”

She snorted at that. “And have him come down with Smalljon, Dacey and the Karstark boys? He’ll end up in prison for assault! Don’t you dare tell him, Jon!”

Jon had to concede that she had a point and promised he wouldn’t.

“Anyway, pretending you were my boyfriend seems to have done the trick,” she continued.

”As long as he stops giving you trouble.”

They stayed for another half-an-hour, Sansa dragging Jon from various groups of friends to introduce her ‘boyfriend’. Petyr was keeping a low profile, which suited Jon just fine.  
Under the guise of helping her on with her coat, Jon leant in for a kiss. It was just meant to reinforce his position as her boyfriend, a quick kiss and nothing more. But at the brush of his lips, Sansa gasped into his mouth and the rush of her hot breath undid him completely. One hand moved up to palm the back of her head, whilst the other splayed across her hip, moving her closer into him.

The noise of the party receded and all Jon could focus on was just how soft Sansa’s lips were. He sucked her bottom lip in between his teeth and the whimper she made has his tongue delving into her mouth to deepen the kiss further, all thought of this being a quick kiss forgotten.

Someone jostled into him from behind and the spell was broken. Jon lifted his head, panting to catch his breath and his eyes met Petyr’s across the room. The older man had hate in his eyes and Jon felt a petty rush of satisfaction.

_She will never be yours_ , he thought.


	9. Ser Pounce of the Kingsguard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written on tumblr for the prompt: Hey - someone on Making Fun of the Starks posted that they wanted to see a fic where Ser Pounce is made a member of the Kingsguard. As a fellow cat lover, I can see that being both hilarious, and also having Ser Pounce being the most vicious and loyal member of the guard - as long as Tommen keeps bringing the tuna. I'd thought I'd see if you were interested in the prompt, or knew of someone who could do it justice.

Jaime had only agreed as an exasperated jape, fed up at just how useless Ser Meryn Trant and his ilk were. He hadn’t meant it but there was Tommen standing before him with his gods forsaken kitten in one hand and a decree in the other declaring that Ser Pounce was now a member of the Kingsguard. Loras Tyrell stood behind him, smirking, and Jaime narrowed his eyes knowing just who he had to blame for Ser Pounce’s unexpected elevation.

“Your Grace, Ser Pounce cannot be a member of the Kingsguard, he’s not a knight,” Jaime said, grasping at straws.

“Yes, he is,” Tommen replied. “Ser Loras knighted him and then he stood vigil in the Sept here overnight. I wanted it to be the Great Sept, but Margaery said she didn’t think the High Septon would like it.”

Somehow Jaime managed to swallow the retort that sprang to his lips. Tommen was a far cry from the hideous brat his brother had been, and an unkind remark would probably have him bursting into tears, which would only suit the Tyrell agenda. 

“Are you really sure you want Ser Pounce on your Kingsguard, your Grace? He’s not exactly going to be able to wield a sword.”

“Neither can the Lord Commander,” Ser Loras muttered under his breath.

Jaime longed to plant his golden hand in Loras’ smug face, but Tommen stood there, his big green eyes gazing anxiously up at him. 

“He scratched Grand Maester Pycelle this morning, when he tried to make me drink an infusion of beets,” Tommen said with a shudder.

Jaime’s lips twitched as the sheer ridiculousness of the situation got to him. “His finest hour, I’m sure.”


	10. In the Cold Light of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little drabble outlining how I wish the morning after the night before had gone down at the Crag (and if Maege Mormont had been there). Sorry Jeyne!

There was a knock on the chamber door and Robb stopped the pacing that he had been doing since before dawn, trying to think everything through as the realisation of what he had done dawned on him.

At some point, not long after the sun had risen over the Westerlands, he had decided that he needed to marry Jeyne and had sent men out to prepare the Sept. He looked briefly where Jeyne slumbered and a soft smile lit his face and he gently brushed back the strand of hair that rested on her cheek before bidding the person outside to enter.

“Begging your pardon, my grace,” said Maege Mormont, bustling in with a steaming mug in her hand, Dacey and a train of servants behind her carrying a bath and pails of hot water. “Put it there before the fire.”

Robb stared in confusion at his bannerwoman as she continued to direct the servants before dismissing them once the bath had been filled. She then turned to Jeyne and shock her shoulder gently and said, “I am very sorry to wake you, my lady, but I have brought you something to drink.”

Jeyne sat up groggily and took the cup from Lady Mormont, taking a sip before wrinkling her nose in disgust. “What is this, my lady?” she asked, sleep making her voice husky.

“Something to help you, my child, now drink it all up,” Lady Mormont said and watched as Jeyne drank the rest of the drink. She took the empty mug with a smile. “There’s a good girl. I took the liberty of ordering a bath for you, and my daughter Dacey will attend to you whilst I have a word with His Grace.”

Robb’s eyebrows rose at Lady Mormont’s words, which sounded much more like an order than a request and the look she gave him reminded him of his own lady mother. “If you please, you grace,” she said, ushering him into the small solar that adjoined the bedchamber.

Already seated in the room was Smalljon Umber, Robin Flint, Owen Norrey and Wendel Manderly. There was one seat left available. “If you wouldn’t mind taking the last seat, Your Grace.”

Robb sat feeling more chastised that he had in a long while. “What was it that you gave Lady Jeyne to drink, my lady?”

“Moon tea, Your Grace. You know what that is, right?”

Heat stained his cheeks red and he nodded, realising that he was the youngest in the room by a good few years. The men who called him their king showed no surprise and embarrassment at the answer. They will have bedded more than one woman just the once, he thought.

“But why have you given it to Lady Jeyne? I sent for the sept to be made ready.”

“Yes, Your Grace, I hope you do not mind, but I countermanded those orders.”

Robb frowned and asked, “What gave you that right?”

Lady Mormont looked at him kindly. “I was afraid that you might have forgotten that you are already betrothed to a daughter of Lord Frey, Your Grace.”

There was a shuffling on the seat next to him and Robb was horribly aware of the other men listening in to this conversation. “Well, no, I had not forgotten, my lady, but I have dishonoured Lady Jeyne and there is only one way in which I can make amends.”

“Your intentions are honourable, Your Grace, but I may have a solution that would suit all parties. I’m sure one of these fine bannermen of yours would be more than happy to marry Lady Jeyne, should her family feel that the money I have offered Lady Westerling is not recompense enough.

The anger rushed into Robb’s gut, taking him by surprise. Whilst he might not love her, Robb had become fond of the sweet girl who had nursed him back to health and the thought of her being married off to a loyal bannerman because he had dishonoured her angered him. “No!” he objected. “The mistake is mine and I will rectify it. My father would have expected it from me and I will not ask another man to shoulder my responsibility.”

Wendel Manderly heaved his large body off the creaking chair. “I’m sure I speak for Umber, Flint and Norrey when I say that any of us would consider marrying Lady Jeyne an honour, Your Grace.”

Robb looked at the other three men, who all nodded their agreement and he felt even worse for the predicament he had not only put Jeyne in but now four of his loyal men, who could not want to marry a girl who had lain with their king, but would do so if he asked. “I could not ask that of you, my lords. She may also carry my child and I would expect no one to raise my bastard in my stead.”

“That is why I bought the Moon Tea, Your Grace,” Lady Mormont reminded him and he flushed, feeling foolish to have forgotten that detail already. Theon would have laughed at him.

He scowled as he thought on the man whom he had considered like a brother, who had taken his castle, and murdered his brothers before rubbing his eyes wearily. He had not slept all night and not for the obvious reason. “My father raised me to take care of my own mistakes-” he started to say.

“With all due respect, Your Grace, I served your father loyally for many years. I also went south with my brother when your father called the banners against the Targaryen king. I was at Riverrun when your father married Lady Catelyn Tully for her father’s men. Lord Eddard was ever a man of his word, Your Grace.”

The rebuke was mild and he knew it was not meant to shame him, but shame him it did anyway. He sat back down and ran a hand through his curls. “You think I should not marry her, Lady Mormont.”

“I do not, Your Grace. Lord Westerling has fought against you and remains your prisoner now. You would be spurning a daughter of one of your own loyal bannerman for the daughter of an enemy. This marriage would do our cause no good.”

Robb turned to the four men who had remained largely silent and asked, “And you agree with Lady Mormont.”

All nodded and Robb dismissed them before he turned to Lady Mormont again. “How can I face her after this?” he asked, hating how young he sounded.

“You needn’t set eyes on her again, Your Grace. Dacey and I will take care of everything.”

But Robb shook his head. “No, my father would never have left such a task to someone else, no matter how unpleasant.”

Lady Mormont. “No, he would not. And you honour his memory by refusing to take the easy way out.”

Squaring his shoulders as he prepared to enter the bedchamber once more, Robb said, “My thanks for your council, Lady Mormont.”


	11. You Can't Escape Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr Baelish has taken Winterfell only to find winter has come for him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little wish fulfillment drabble to cheer pennylane4 up after the horrible day she had the other day.

Petyr smiled as he surveyed the solar around him. It might be scorched with the majority of the furniture either burnt or heavily singed, but here he was, standing in Ned Stark’s solar, the Lord of Winterfell in all but name. 

_So much for House Stark_ , he thought. _All that pride and honour, and what did it get you? Nothing more than a head on a spike_.

He had won, the Starks had lost, and he now held their kingdom in the palm of his hand. Sansa was his now that Harry Hardyng was conveniently out of the way too, and once the babe was born to inherit all that Petyr had won for her, he would take her for his own. 

_Is a Baelish good enough now?_ he thought with a smug smile. He had bested the Starks, the Lannisters, the Tyrells, and the lords of the Vale. It had all been so easy. These high lords and their ambitions had been pathetically simple to manipulate and now he stood atop it all. 

He moved towards the window and fingered the mockingbird pin that clasped his cloak around him. Nothing but snow met his eyes. The North was not the most prepossessing of places. Gloomy and dark and full of uncouth people, but it was loyal to the Stark name and, thanks to Sansa, he had the game piece he needed to take it all. 

From the top of the Great Keep, he watched as men hurried to and fro in the courtyard, picking up where the Boltons had left off, looking to restore as much order to the burnt out shell of a castle as possible. It would be many moons before the castle was ready to welcome Lady Stark and her retinue and Petyr had left Sansa in the Vale, increasing with her heir, whilst her new husband had lead the armies North. 

It had been simple to pay a sellsword to see that Harry was dispatched in the chaos of the battle that had raged around Moat Cailin, and not a moment too soon, as Lord Royce had soon appeared north of the castle, having been lead through the swamps of the Neck by Howland Reed’s frogeaters. It had then been easy to send Lord Royce off to White Harbour to negotiate with the fat Lord Manderly, whilst he had taken the bulk of his army north to Winterfell.

The deep, hollow sound of a horn being blown pulled Petyr from his victorious thoughts, and he looked towards the battlements to see his men scurrying about, grabbing their weapons. He frowned. There was no one left to conquer. The Boltons had been vanquished and no other Northern lord would seek to take up arms against the direwolf that ran rampant once more from tops of every standing tower. 

Within a short space of time, Petyr found himself out on the battlements, wrapped up against the fierce sting of the winter wind. _How the Starks could be so proud of ruling such a desolate place, I do not know_ , he thought sourly as snow whipped against his face, stinging his cheeks.

“What is it?” he called to the captain of his guards.

“We are not sure but there is something moving out there.”

Petyr peered into the snow and soon enough he saw black shapes slowly shuffling towards the castle. They did not move with the gait of a normal army, instead it was erratic and slow and he squinted to just make out what was coming to the gates of Winterfell. 

It was then that he saw them, tall creatures flashing various colours as if armoured in many hued ice. They moved with impossible speed, and with a fluidity that was not human. But it was the eyes that grabbed Petyr’s attention, a vivid blue that shone out of the pale, gaunt faces. A blue so cold that it seemed as if was the embodiment of winter itself.

“What are they?” he asked in a whisper.

“The Others,” a voice with a Northern accent said next to him. Petyr turned to face him and was shocked by the twisted grin on the toothless old man’s face. “Winter is coming, Lord Baelish.”


	12. Never Meant to be Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely the fault of [DKNC](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/pseuds/DKNC) who gave me unacceptable Robb and Ice and Ned feels at 6am the other morning. This was the result.

Ice had finally been brought home and Jon gazed at it hesitantly. Tyrion Lannister had hunted down and collected Widow’s Wail and Oathkeeper, and hired the most skilled blacksmith he could find to reforge the greatsword. He had told Jon what he had planned as they made their way back from the Lands of Always Winter, half flying and half walking with the dying dragons. 

“I want to make recompense,” Tyrion had said. “My family wronged yours greatly and this was just one of the offences.”

Jon had been supportive of the idea, remembering how his father would clean Ice under the heart tree at Winterfell after every time he had need to use it.

But that been before he was made Lord of Winterfell. Before he realised that no more Starks lived. That neither Sansa nor Arya would be there to become Lady of Winterfell and birth sons strong enough to wield the ancestral greatsword. _Or daughters_ , he thought with a smile as he remembered the brave Brienne of Tarth, who had towered over him and who could have carried Ice into battle with ease. He did not like to think that she had fought with a remnant of Ice. That monstrosity of a sword she had held was nothing like the Ice of his memory. 

Or the sword that he gazed at now.

The hilt was the only thing that gave it away as something new. The leather not nearly worn enough and the silver and steel too shiny. 

However, it was not this small change that stopped Jon from picking it up and testing the balance, it was the realisation that he had never touched Ice before. Not even to hand it to his father. It had been a line he had not crossed as a boy at Winterfell. He had known that if he were to touch Ice then it would be viewed by Lady Stark with suspicion. As if he truly did plan on trying to wrestle the lordship away from her sons. 

That was not lost on him now as he stood in his brothers’ shoes, the Lord of Winterfell, something he had never looked for. 

He drew a deep breath, aware of the eyes that watched, and picked Ice up. As he handled the large sword, he remembered sadly that Robb had never had this opportunity. Ice was meant to be his but had never been held by him. 

_This was to have been Robb’s_ , he thought. _All of it. Ice, Winterfell, the title of Lord Stark. It was never meant for me._


	13. A Loyal King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for youdoyouwill on tumblr for the prompt: Robb x Myrcella, loyalty

Myrcella knew what Robb’s bannermen were saying. What they whispered behind their hands as she walked past, and what they’d said to him when he would storm into their chambers, his hands screwed up into fists and his jaw clenched shut.

They wanted him to set her aside. To claim that his union to her was not valid because he had married her under false pretences. She was no princess of royal blood, but a bastard born of incest and the child of a house fallen by the wayside.

Myrcella would watch with worried eyes as Robb would go into the nursery and kiss Barthogan and Aregelle goodnight, her hand smoothing over her bump as she sat in the chair by the fire, sewing clothes for the babe that was due in three moons time. No lions or reds or golds decorated any of her children’s clothes. She made sure of that. They were dressed exclusively in the colours of House Stark, a reminder that these were Robb’s trueborn children, his heirs.

“You needn’t do that,” he said to her one evening as he returned from reading their babes yet another story.

“Do what?” she asked.

“Worry,” he replied. “It cannot be good for the babe and you have nothing to be concerned about.”

“Wynafryd Manderly arrived today. She is unwed still.”

“Aye, and I’ll tell you what I told her grandsire. I have a wife already and I am not a Targaryen to take more than one.”

Tears welled up in Myrcella’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks, her fears coming to the fore. “They wish for you to set me aside. To marry a northern girl of impeccable lineage.”

Robb tilted her chin up, his thumb brushing her tears away. “They can wish for whatever they want, Myrcella, but I will not allow for that to happen. I gave my vows before the heart tree that you would be my wife until death parts us and nothing has changed.”

Myrcella gave her husband a tremulous smile and kissed his hand.

Others may say that House Stark’s greatest attribute was their honour, but Myrcella knew better – it was their loyalty.


	14. An Ignoble Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for shewolfhowling's prompt: Robb x Myrcella Possessive

Myrcella told herself that she had done it to protect her sweet friend Jeyne, who was more than half in love with the Young Wolf and oblivious to the way she was pushed onto him by her mother.

When Robb Stark had stormed the Crag, no one had expected Myrcella’s presence there. It was a secret that instead of going to Dorne, her mother had smuggled her away to her old friend, Jeyne Farman, knowing that she would be safe in the Westerlands. Jeyne Farman had just been trying to alleviate the princess Myrcella’s boredom at being taken from a bustling court life to the staid backwaters of Fair Isle, and so had sent her for a sojourn to the Westerlings, who had girls Myrcella’s age.

That had been before the Stark forces had defeated Stafford Lannister and roamed the northern Westerlands at will.

Since the Northern army had taken the Crag, Myrcella had been secluded off and not allowed in the presence of the injured young Stark. Her Lannister blood had meant that she wasn’t trusted to not poison him whilst he was helpless.

That didn’t mean Myrcella hadn’t seen things though. Such as the way Jeyne Westerling had been spending all her time tending to Robb Stark. She had also seen the letter sent to Sybell Spicer written in her grandfather’s hand. Suddenly, her previously inexplicable behaviour in encouraging her daughter Jeyne to wait on the Young Wolf and spend as much time in his company as she could had made sense.

It was a dangerous game to be sure, but one that Myrcella recognised from the murky surroundings of the Royal Court. If Robb Stark won, then Jeyne would be his Queen, but if Lord Tywin came out on top, then it was the oldest honey trap in the world.

So, Myrcella told herself that sneaking into Robb Stark’s chambers in the dead of night when he was comatose from a sedative was to protect Jeyne from getting hurt.

She adverted her eyes from her hurt friend’s gaze, as her presence in Robb Stark’s bed, entangled in his arms, was publicly discovered the next morning.

She pretended not to hear Jeyne’s sobs as Robb took Myrcella’s hand in the sept and pledged himself to her and sealed it with a kiss.

Myrcella definitely did not acknowledge the spark of possessiveness she felt as she was presented to Robb’s men as Myrcella, Queen in the North.

She had done it to protect her friend, not because she had any feelings for Robb Stark and had wanted to stamp her claim on the handsome Northern king.

Or so she told herself. 


	15. Stranger's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt: Rumaan, i have a promp, jon snow thinks about his mom in the day of the death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was more inadvertent thinking about his mum!

Jon followed his father as he went down into the crypts. It was Stranger’s Day for Lady Stark and she had gathered up all her children to go and pray in the sept for their ancestors, despite the fact that Starks didn’t even follow the Seven.

Last year, Jon had noticed that Father used this time to go and pay a visit to the crypts and this year, he had decided to follow him.

He crept quietly, keeping to the shadows so that Father could not see him and watched as Ned stopped in front of the statues of his father, brother and sister. He bent his head as he murmured words that Jon couldn’t hear.

Curious about why his father had come here on such a day, he sneaked closer, his heart hammering as he knew he would be in trouble if Father caught him.

Ducking behind the statue of Great-Grandfather Edwyle, Jon strained his ears to hear what his father was saying.

“I kept my promise, Lyanna, I’ve kept him as safe as I could.”

Jon wondered who Father could be talking about. Ned didn’t like to talk about Aunt Lyanna. Whenever any of them would ask about her, he would get a sad look in his eyes, clam up and tell them it was a story for another time. He spoke about her even less than he did Uncle Brandon or Grandfather Rickard. Not even Uncle Benjen, who would often tell them stories about his childhood at Winterfell, would speak about Aunt Lyanna. There were lots of tales about dashing Uncle Brandon and how Father would always get them out of trouble, but nothing about Aunt Lyanna.

It always made Jon sad that they knew so little about her. She must have been special because she was the only non-ruling Stark to have a statue in the crypts.

Father lit candles and placed them by the feet of the three statues and then quietly returned back up into the main castle.

Jon crawled out his hiding place and sat in front of the statue of Lyanna.

“I wish I’d known you, Aunt Lyanna,” he said sadly.

Out of all the images of long ago Starks, it was Aunt Lyanna who always drew his attention. Robb tended to gravitate towards Torrhen Stark, last King in the North, but Jon – he always ended up in front of her somehow.


	16. Littlepecker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tormund gets under the skin of Littlefinger the best way he can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look @themiddleliddle came up with this [excellent speculation](http://thefairfleming.tumblr.com/post/152308304271/themiddleliddle-ok-but-one-of-the-best-things) and I couldn't help myself.
> 
> A mixture of GoT and ASOIAF canon because I refuse to have House Umber be anti-Stark!

“Littlefinger?” Tormund asked loudly. “Is that because your pecker is tiny?”

Holding back his snigger, Tormund watched as the creepy little man who stalked Lady Stark’s every step reddened.

The rest of the Great Hall wasn’t so kind. The Northern Lords and host of Wildlings that Jon Snow had left behind whilst he journeyed south guffawed loudly. Petyr Baelish was not a popular man in Winterfell. Oh, he might have brought the army of the Vale up North, but no one was fooled that he cared about the region. His lustful gaze followed the young Lady Stark too keenly for anyone to be in doubt just what his intentions were.

Tormund did not hold with it.

When the Lords of the Vale had first supped in the Great Hall, they had joked about Littlefinger and his success with Tully ladies. That was until Lord Umber smashed Mychel Redfort in the face for implying that Littlefinger had lain with Lady Catelyn Stark before she had married the old Lord Stark.

Before he had climbed the Wall, Tormund had not thought he would ever find himself defending House Stark. They were hated by the Free Folk. The embodiment of everything that was wrong south of the Wall. Now, he was stationed at Winterfell with most of his people populating the Winter Town and firm friends with Jon Snow, a Stark King in the North as well as Lady Sansa Stark.

And he disliked the way Petyr Baelish aimed to sow disharmony and take the Lady of Winterfell for himself.

“For the geographical region where my house originates,” Littlefinger said stiffly.

“Aye, that’s what you’re bound to say,” Tormund sniped. “I bet it’s because you can’t satisfy the ladies.”

“I would not expect a Wildling to understand the intricacies of Westeros geography.”

Tormund took a long draught of his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “At least my member is big enough to satisfy a bear,” he said with a wink. “Want to compare?” He stood and fiddled with the laces of his breeches. He had no plan to actually bring his cock out, not in front of Lady Stark, but it was fun to mess with the little man.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Littlefinger said with an uncomfortable smile. “We’re in company.”

“Aye, you’re right. My pecker’s a fine specimen. We’re bred big north of the Wall. A puny little Southron like you probably has something our new-borns would be ashamed to own.”

The laughter rung around the Great Hall and Baelish sat there, a forced grin on his face, aware that this would spread across Winterfell like wildfire. His name would no longer be associated with whatever shithole he hailed from, but with an undersized cock. If Tormund had read him right, then he would hate that more than getting punched in the face.

Lady Stark, sitting serenely by Littlefinger’s side, turned to Tormund and gave him a small smile. A server arrived from the kitchens with a fine haunch of venison, which Lady Stark sent it down to him with a gracious wave of her hand.

Tormund sat again, his job done for now, and turned his attention to his food. When Jon had left with instructions for him to protect Lady Stark, he probably hadn’t meant like this. However, he had no qualms about his behaviour. Jon had hated Littlefinger, too.


	17. Breaking the Fourth Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sansa find out about fanfiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when fandom was obsessed with characters finding and reading fanfiction about themselves? 
> 
> This is for Jeeno2 a) to celebrate how popular both her OTPs are in fanfiction and b) because this trend was the silliest but also ridiculous fun and c) because she is awesome and deserves all the fluff these days.

“What you doing?” Jon asked, coming into the small living room at the back of Winterfell that had been commandeered a couple of years ago by both Sansa and Arya as theirs. “Gendry and I have been waiting for fifteen minutes down in the lobby. The film will be starting in five minutes.”

Sansa and Arya looked up from their tablets and then back down again to check the time.

“Oh wow! It’s much later than I thought,” Arya said, untucking her feet and putting her glass of honeyed iced milk back on the table. “Guess we should get going if we’re going to make the film.”

Sansa bit her lip and then threw an entreating glance up at her boyfriend. “Do you really want to go and watch the film?”

“Well,” Jon said, elongating the sound and sharing a guilty look with Gendry. “It’s not my favourite type of film, but I know how much both you and Arya love Arianne Martell’s work and this is meant to be her masterpiece.”

“Arya? Want to go and catch a lunchtime showing tomorrow instead.”

“Yup,” Arya said, slumping back onto the sofa and picking her tablet up again.

“What? That’s it?” Gendry asked, confused. “You’re just going to go back to reading whatever is so riveting on your tablet and ditch your dates tonight.”

“Uh huh,” Arya said, grabbing a square of lemon cake and munching on it.

“Wow,” Gendry said. “That’s harsh, babe.” He snatched the tablet out of Ayra’s hand. “What are you reading anyway?”

“Boundaries!” she snapped, elbowing him _hard_ in the stomach.

Gendry wheezed from being winded for a moment and then it changed it a choking laugh. “What are you reading? ‘ _Jon gazed longingly at Sansa, his grey eyes soft with feeling as he watched her charm the room. If only she could see how much he loved her, how he longed for her, and how he wished this relationship they were faking for her ex’s wedding could turn into something permanent’._ ”

“Give that here,” Arya said with a scowl.

Jon, intrigued, leaned over Sansa’s shoulder and then clamped a hand over his eyes with a shout of surprise. “What the hell? What is Gendry doing to Arya?”

Sansa grinned mischievously, winked at her sister’s boyfriend and waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “You’ve got moves, Waters, I’ll give you that.”

“Hey! I thought we agreed to read G to T fics only!” Ayra said.

“Nope. That was you and your sensibilities towards Jon in smutty situations. I have no problems reading about you and Gendry getting it on.”

“What are you both reading?” Jon asked bewildered.

“Fanfiction,” Sansa said.

“Yeah, we found a site where people write about us as couples, among other things.”

“I thought Brienne told you never to search your names on the internet.”

Arya and Sansa looked at each other and grinned. “What Brienne doesn’t know, can’t harm her. We’ve had fake twitter accounts for years. However, we’d never thought to look for fanfic before,” Sansa said.

“And we’re really popular. There’s a ton of fanfic out there for both us,” Arya chimed in. “Although some of the pairings leave a little to be desired. We thought we’d break ourselves in gently and read about our real life relationships in fanfic. We’re both a popular pairing so it’s been fun.”

Jon’s phone pinged and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Oh for the love of the gods, you’ve sent me a link.”

“Yep. They’ve got some details between us really right,” Sansa said suggestively.

“La la la!” Arya said, with her hands clapped over her ears. “I can’t hear you!”

Gendry’s phone pinged then. “Don’t want you to feel left out, Gendry,” Sansa said. “And if they are as right about Jon and I as they are about you two then nice job!”

They high-fived.

Jon groaned loudly as he scrolled through the website. “There are _hundreds_ of fics!”

“And hundred for us too,” Gendry said with a slightly smug smile.

“So, who wants to bask in our popularity for the night?” Arya asked.

Silence greeted her. Everyone’s heads were bent over their devices already reading.

 


	18. The Terrible Intern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since joining the company, Loras has been giving Garlan a massive headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because today is the wonderful @blackholeofprocrastination‘s birthday and we’ve been giggling over headcanons about Loras Tyrell due to Finn Jones playing Danny Rand, here’s a little ficlet that plays into vegan hippy Loras in a business setting.
> 
> Happy birthday, Emmy!!

Garlan sighed as the call from reception came through again. He usually liked being the Tyrell who headed up security. It suited him. He wasn’t in board meetings all day, which he detested, and he usually got to train with some of the elite bodyguards hired to protect the prestigious and wealthy Tyrells from any kidnapping attempts.

However, ever since Loras had come back from his Buddhist retreat or whatever the hell it was he’d been doing in a remote region of China for the past eighteen months, Garlan had hated his job. Olenna Tyrell had decreed that it had been time for Loras to come home and take his place in the family business and it had been put on Garlan’s shoulders to try and stop him doing anything too outlandish in public.

You’d think it would be an easy job, but it really wasn’t.

“Sir,” came the shy voice of Merry Crane. “It’s Loras.”

“I’ll be right down,” Garlan said in a weary voice, not even bothering to find out what it was this time.

All the reception staff were trained to quietly call him as soon as Loras did something stupid. There was no point in them confronting Loras because then more attention was then drawn to whatever it was he was doing.

By the time Garlan made it down to the reception lobby, Loras was sitting crossed legged on the floor, slap bang in the middle of the pristine marble lobby. His appeared to have lost his suit jacket and tie that he knew his valet Mullendore sent him out with every morning as well as his shoes and socks. The deplorable ragged backpack that he insisted on dragging around everywhere with him was at his side and he had a serene expression on his face.

“How long has he been like this?” Garlan asked Merry.

“Just before I put the phone call into you.”

“Anyone important been past?”

“No, but Cersei Lannister is due any moment for her meeting with Mrs Tyrell.”

He thanked his lucky stars that Cersei Lannister hadn’t walked in on this. There was no way she would be to let it pass without some kind of nasty comment to his grandma and then Garlan would be called in and asked why Loras was even in that position in the first place.

“Thank you for calling me so quickly.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Garlan approached Loras and picked up his backpack. “Come on, Loras, let’s go meditate in your office.”

“But the Feng Shui is better down here.”

Suppressing his irritation with his hippy dippy brother, Garlan just said, “Yes, but this is the lobby. You can’t just drop down in the middle of it and go into a trance.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is a business, Loras, a very busy and successful one at that.”

“Everyone should make time for meditation.”

“Tell you what, if you get up now and come with me, I’ll let you lead me in a meditation session upstairs.”

Loras’ face brightened at his words. He was always trying to involve his siblings in his newfound lifestyle and whilst there was no way Garlan was ever going to go vegan, he could put up with a weekly meditation session if it meant not having to drag Loras out of unsuitable places every few hours.

 


End file.
